


Hey Kind Friend

by suddenlystylinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxious Niall, Coming Out, First Time, Fluff, London AU, M/M, Protective Liam, Smut, Work In Progress, and eventually, millenial angst, with some classic "group of friends living in a big city"-fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5391884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suddenlystylinson/pseuds/suddenlystylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam's first encounter with Niall isn't what you'd call enjoyable--taking care of drunk strangers never is--but London seems hell-bent on bringing them together, and Liam's beginning to think Niall is the best way of not being lonely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP for which I have no idea what the endgame is, nor what the middlegame is, but the opening has embedded itself in my brain and is calling out to be manifested somehow, so I figured what the hell. Enjoy what's here as I try to figure out what's to come!
> 
> "Hey Kind Friend" is a working title and is taken from an Indigo Girls song by the same name.

Liam wonders what it would be like to be able to travel through time. Would the people you met in the past seem like they were from a different world, or would you be surprised by how similar they still were to you? Would food taste different? If you brought technology with you, would they think you were a wizard? If you traveled back to the time of the dinosaurs, how much harder would it be to survive in the wilderness than it is now?

Glancing at the still-talking brunette across the table, another thought occurs to him. _If I could travel through time, would I be able to stop my past self from asking this girl out?_

Just then a chorus of shouts breaks Liam from his reverie. Without thinking, his eyes snap away from his date and toward the pub doors, through which a group of rather boisterous boys has just entered, playfully shoving one another and cheering. As they settle into seats at the bar—scraping the barstools loudly against the cement floor as they do so—Liam feels a spike of annoyance pushing his lips into a thin line. This is not how he imagined his date going.

He turns back to his date and nods, compulsively, trying to regain the thread of her speech. Something about her cat. “He’s an absolute shit, is basically what I’m trying to say,” she finishes, but she’s smiling. Liam pulls the sides of his mouth into a grin and confesses, “I’m more of a dog person myself.”

This doesn’t seem to have pleased her, but Liam is distracted when one of the boys at the bar lets out a never-ending cackle of a laugh. As Liam’s head snaps right survey the group of boys, his eyes lock onto the offender immediately—a blond-headed boy leaning heavily to one side and shaking with laughter that is now coming out in squeaks. As Liam glares, the boy slams his palm on the table and cries, “ANOTHER! FOR MY FRIEND HERE!” He and this friend are clearly several drinks ahead of everyone else at the bar, and Liam frowns as he turns his attention back to his silent date, who is now staring into her drink and twirling her straw awkwardly. _Fucking obnoxious_ ,Liam thinks. _Like they think they’re the only ones here_.

Liam tries to salvage their conversation, but he finds himself glancing over at the bar over and over again throughout the next ten minutes. His date seems to be almost offended, and he doesn’t really blame her. Not only is he being a terrible conversational partner, but this particular girl, as a model, is probably used to having her dates’ eyes pretty well glued on her. Liam can’t help it, though. He’s just so annoyed by this loud blond who won’t stop ordering shots “ALL AROUND!” even though he’s already had a few too many. He’s even more annoyed when he notices that none of this boy’s more sober friends of cutting him off. A glance at the bartender does not put him at ease, for the bartender, rather than mimicking Liam’s own wary attention to the boy is already pouring him another shot with a smirk that seems almost predatory.

His date is entirely oblivious to this group of boys and Liam doesn’t understand how she can keep talking doggedly on with all this racket going on just behind them. Or perhaps Liam just can’t concentrate on their conversation because they have absolutely _nothing_ in common. For the last ten minutes she’s been discussing—in an off-putting mix of self-deprecating and self-aggrandizing descriptions—her looks and all the effort she has to put into maintaining them. He is well-practiced at complimenting women on their looks (and it’s not hard to find honest compliments to offer her—she is damn hot), but he is entirely out of his depth when she begins discussing makeup. _Does she think I know enough about this to be able to respond?_ he wonders, raising his eyebrows in what he hopes is an interested expression. In the end, he can hardly be blamed for excusing himself to go to the toilet when she comments, “the makeup artist today wanted to use this purple stain on my lips and it just bummed me out, you know, because I feel like I look awful in cool tones.”

As Liam shuffles into a stall, he takes out his phone. He doesn’t actually need to go, he just needs to save himself from the somehow exhausting encounter he’s having with his date tonight. He opens up Instagram, hoping to distract himself momentarily, but he finds no new posts. He absent-mindedly scrolls through already-seen photos as he wonders to himself _Am I a bad person if I make up a reason I need to leave early?_ As he battles with his conscience, he hears the bathroom door open and a pair of feet scuffle hastily into the next stall over. The bang of the stall door against the adjacent wall is immediately accompanied by the most violent retching he has ever heard. Eyes wide with surprise, it takes Liam a moment to realize that he knows exactly who that must be in the adjacent stall. _Well, that’s what happens, mate_ , he thinks to himself, but wonders whether it’s better to leave the boy alone or offer to help. Liam knows what he would want if it were him retching his guts out, and he’s almost convinced himself that the loud blond would prefer a private moment when the retching gives way to violent coughs and then a moan that sounds straight from the mouth of a dying man. Liam exhales slowly, furrowing his brow. He’s going to regret doing this, but he calls out, perhaps a bit more quietly than he means to, “You okay in there?”

All he hears in reply are more groans—pathetic, whimpering ones this time.

_Fuck_ , Liam thinks to himself. He steps out of his stall and finds the blond with his head resting on the toilet, never having closed the stall door. “Shit mate, are you all right?”

The blond boy is breathing heavily now, no longer groaning, but he only manages to croak out “Too much…” in response to Liam’s question.

“Yeah, mate, I noticed you and your mates were having a lot of shots.” He walks over to the sinks and wets a wad of paper towels, bringing it back to the blond. “Here,” he says. “To clean yourself off.”

The boy’s eyes flit open as he accepts this offering, and though he is squinting in discomfort, Liam notices that they are bright blue and watering. Liam blinks and glances away, feeling awkward as the boy squints at him unmovingly. “You ought to get some water,” Liam offers, which seems to stir the boy to action. He wipes the corners of his mouth clumsily and then uses the other side to wipe his whole face.

“Cold,” he says, seeming relieved slightly.

Liam clears his throat anxiously and asks, “Do you need help getting up? Or maybe I should find one of your mates to help…?”

“Mmmates left,” he slurs. “Pub crawl.” A grimace spreads over his face and Liam isn’t sure if that’s nausea or remorse.

When it becomes clear that the boy isn’t on the brink of another bout of vomiting, he allows himself to process what the boy has said. _Fuck_ , he thinks again. _What do I do? I can’t leave him, can I?_ He glances at his phone, thinking of his date waiting at the table, probably wondering what’s taking so long. But if she’s having as bad a time as he is on this date, she probably won’t miss him. So, reluctantly, Liam bends down to offer an arm to the blond boy and says, “Well…we should get you home then?”

*** 

Getting inside the taxi is a hurdle Liam hadn’t anticipated. The blond boy has all but lost control of his limbs and as he attempts to scoot along the seat, he falls onto his side, pinning one of his arms underneath him. As the boy struggles to right himself (failing miserably), Liam is beginning to regret this already. The look on his date’s face when he had told her he was leaving early to help this random stranger was enough to make him question his decision. _I mean, you can’t blame her for being offended_ , he thinks. _He’s not my responsibility. I should never have offered to do this._

“I c-…” Liam hears from inside the car.

Snapping back to attention, Liam asks nervously, “What’s that?”

“I can’t….”

Sighing, Liam crouches down to get a better look inside the cab. “Do you need help?”

The boy doesn’t answer, but continues to struggle pathetically, having managed at least to prop himself up with one arm. He groans quietly with his next efforts to get into the far seat.

“Wait, wait, I’ll just get in on the other side,” Liam offers, closing the door and walking to the far side of the cab. When he opens the door, the boy’s blond head is resting halfway onto Liam’s seat. “Hey…umm…let me help you up,” Liam says, getting just enough of his body onto the seat to close the cab door. The boy exhales sharply and struggles up onto one elbow, giving Liam enough leverage to help push him up by the shoulder and (finally) into a vertical position.

“There you go,” Liam says, exhaling in relief.

“Where to?” Prompts the taxi driver, a bit of bite in his voice. _Probably not keen on having such an incredibly drunk kid in his cab_ , Liam thinks. He looks to the blond, who has put his head between his hands and doesn’t seem to have heard.

“What’s your address?” Liam asks, putting a tentative hand on the boy’s shoulder, hoping the contact will bring him to alertness.

Breathing heavily now, the boy rasps, “Umm….” His voice sounds anxious, and Liam absent-mindedly strokes his thumb up and down the boy’s shoulder as he asks again in what he hopes is a reassuring voice, “Can you remember?”

“Can’t do nothin’ without an address,” the driver adds immediately, annoyed. _Gee, glad you’re being so helpful_ , Liam thinks in response. The boy beside him threads his fingers into his hair fretfully as he searches for an answer. After long pause during which Liam can practically feel the driver’s blood pressure rising, the boy finally offers, “It’s on Sterndale Road.”

_Thank goodness. That’s not too far,_ Liam thinks. And actually, it’s basically on the way back to his own flat in Hammersmith. Maybe this wasn’t the _most_ terrible decision.

The cab lurches off and Liam is glad to be moving. He brings his hands together in his lap and tries his best to relax. He gazes out the window at the road, shiny under the streetlamps from the recent drizzle. It isn’t long, however, until his attention turns back to the blond, whose breathing is quickening beside him. Hoping that this isn’t a sign of more vomit to come, Liam asks, “All right?”

The boy doesn’t answer, but nods his head slightly from where it rests between his hands.

Liam wants to believe him and leave it alone, but as he listens to the boy’s quickening, increasingly jagged breathing, it becomes clear that he is _not_ all right. “Do…should we pull over?”

That seems to pierce through his drunkenness, somehow, because he immediately responds, “No, it’s…I’m not…I’m fine.” After this halfhearted declaration, the boy raises his head from his hands and glances sidelong at Liam. As he does so, Liam is astonished to see tears welling in his eyes. “I’m so sorry about this,” he mumbles.

Liam isn’t sure how to respond, but his mouth takes over before his mind can think things through: “No, don’t worry about it.” And then, after pausing to think a moment, he adds, “You got me out of a pretty terrible date, so….”

This doesn’t seem to get through to the boy, however, because his response is to bury his head in his hands again and exhale worriedly.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” Liam says, more loudly this time, but the boy is already clutching almost violently at his blond hair and letting out a soft, “Fuck,” through jagged breaths. “What’s wrong?” Liam tries again, but all he gets in return is another, “So sorry.” Liam wants to put his hand back on the boy’s shoulder, but is afraid that will feel a little too intimate, now that the boy is crying. He clutches at his own knees instead, thumbing the inseams of his jeans. Just when he decides he has to try to reassure the boy again, the driver calls out, “Where on Sterndale?”

The blond looks up, wiping his eyes and looking a little relieved. “Oh…it’s just up here on the left. The brick building. Yeah, this one.”

As the cab slows to a stop, the boy fumbles with the door handle ineffectually, evidently very intent on getting out of the taxi. The driver turns directly to Liam this time and says “fifteen sixty.” Liam pulls out his wallet and hands him a twenty, “Keep the change,” before opening the door and walking round to the other side of the cab to help the blond who has managed to open the door now and is struggling to pull himself upright. Liam gets there just in time to prevent him falling back into the cab seat by reaching an arm around his waist and pulling him onto the sidewalk. This whole thing is more work than Liam was anticipating.

“S-s-sorry,” the boy slurs again as Liam leads him to the door. Liam offers him another “Don’t worry about it,” before asking, “You have your keys?” The boy pulls a set of keys from his pocket and fumbles with them, finally finding the right one and moving it up to the keyhole. But after several moments of futile prodding, Liam interjects: “Do you want me to try?”

The boy nods immediately and hands the keys off to Liam, who turns the lock easily and pushes the door open, finding the inside completely dark. After a moment of feeling around blindly on the wall, he finds a lightswitch and flicks it on. A staircase is illuminated before him, a small living room opens up to the left.

Turning around to give the keys back, he finds the boy leaning against the doorframe looking pale. “Can you make it from here?” he asks.

Squinting his eyes shut and putting a hand on his stomach, the boy only groans on response. _Fuck…. Okay_ , Liam thinks, resigning himself to the task at hand. “Where is your room?”

Eyes still shut tight, the boy answers, “Upstairs,” which is what Liam had been afraid of. He’s not sure the blond is capable of climbing those steps right now, and they’re too narrow for Liam to help him up. There is a small sofa in the living room, though, and Liam decides that that’s the best option for now. Curling an arm around the boy again, he leads him over to the couch, and the boy drops down onto it almost like a ragdoll, splayed out on his back.

“You should lie on your side,” Liam says. The blond responds halfheartedly with a soft, “Mm.” “You should get some water, too.” Liam says, more loudly this time, but he only gets the same response.

_If you’re so sorry, why do you keep making it so I can’t leave?_ Liam thinks, but he says nothing and trudges resignedly into the kitchen, opening the cabinets one by one until he finds the glasses. Grabbing one, he fills it up with water from the tap and brings it back into the living room.

When he arrives, he finds the blond where he left him, motionless on the couch. A flicker of worry sparks in his chest until he sees that the boy’s chest is gently rising and falling in the pattern of sleep.

Liam crosses over to the sofa, calling out, “Hey,” as he approaches, to no avail. Upon reaching the sleeping boy, he bends over to press two fingers of his free hand into his shoulder. “Hey, here’s some water,” he tries again. This time the boy stirs and his eyelids flutter open groggily. _Rather short eyelashes_ , Liam thinks.“Drink this, then I’ll get out of here and let you sleep.”

The boy seems to accept this plan because he holds a hand out to receive the glass. But when Liam lets the glass go, it slips right out of the boy’s hand and shatters on the floor.

“Fuck,” says the boy, looking confusedly at the pieces of glass all over the floor, then up at Liam. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Liam echoes and exhales heavily. “Do you have a broom?”

“Yeah,” the boy answers and rolls over onto his side in an attempt to get up. But instead of supporting his weight, his arm buckles, loses its grip on the cushion, and reflexively snaps down toward the floor to prevent him falling off the couch.

“No, no–!” Liam warns, much too late to be of use. “Fuck, is your hand okay?”

The boy sucks air in through his teeth as he brings his hand up to his face. There is indeed a shard of glass stuck in his palm.

“Oh, fuck,” Liam says again. _Please don’t let me have to take this kid to the hospital_. “Do you have a first aid kit or anything?

The boy looks at him, wide-eyed in shock. “No…I don’t think so.” He answers.

_Fuck_. “Uhh…okay, stay there. Where’s your broom?”

“Um, it’s uh…in the closet by the front door.”

Liam half jogs over to the closet and take out the broom. After making quick work of the remaining glass shards and tossing them in the trash, he hurries back to the boy now propped up in a slightly less horizontal position on the couch. When he arrives, he realizes that the boy has pulled the glass shard from his palm and the cut is now bleeding openly.

“Ow ow ow ow,” the boy whispers, trying to cup his other hand over the cut to stop the bleeding.

Suppressing the part of himself that feels annoyed at the blond’s complete incompetency, Liam focuses instead on the feeling of panic beginning to prick at his chest. “Shit,” he says aloud, “umm….” _Something to absorb the blood_ …. _Oh!_ He runs back to the kitchen and snatches the roll of paper towels resting on the counter. Ripping off a few pieces, he runs them under the tap to wet them, then runs back over to the sofa.

“Here, give me your hand,” he orders, taking a wad of dry paper towels and pressing them on top of the boy’s wounded palm. He presses hard, hoping to stop the bleeding, and wonders if he’s hurting the boy. But the boy doesn’t complain, and after a minute, Liam peers under the cloths to inspect the damage. The cut is still bleeding, but more slowly, so Liam takes the opportunity to clean the palm with the damp paper towels.

“This doesn’t look that deep, actually,” Liam reports, feeling both himself and the blond relax slightly as he says this. “It’s still bleeding, though. Are you sure you don’t have any band-aids or anything?”

“I…dunno. I just moved in th’ other day,” he says slowly, still slurring his words, though the event seems like it may have sobered him up a little.

“Well we need something to keep these pressed to your hand, then,” he replies. “Umm….” After a pause, he heads back over to the kitchen and rummages through drawers and cabinets until he stumbles upon some cling film. _This might work_. Grabbing the box, he brings it back to the sofa and finds the blond looking at him with a confused expression on his face. “I’m going to try something,” Liam says, pulling a length of film out and cutting it on the side of the box. “Hold the paper towels in place.” The boy holds them down with his other thumb and Liam wraps the film around the back of his hand and crisscrosses the ends over the front after letting the boy remove his thumb from the towels. The film sticks, but it isn’t very secure, so Liam takes out another length of film and repeats the procedure again, then does so once more. At this point the bandage seems like it will stay in place, hopefully at least for the night.

“Oh man….” Says the boy, finally. “ _Thank_ you. ’M so sorry about this.”

Liam exhales through pursed lips, in a way that sounds more frustrated than he intended. “It’s okay,” he answers, looking down at the floor. _This is so awkward_ , he thinks just before he glimpses what looks like a tiny shard of glass still on the floor, underneath the couch. And before he can think better of it, he says, “I’m not sure I got all the glass off the floor. I think you’d better sleep on your bed so that you don’t wake up in the middle of the night and…impale yourself all over again.”

The boy clears his throat and nods, swinging his legs slowly over the edge of the sofa. Liam extends a hand to help the boy up and when he pulls forward, he realizes that the boy is still _very_ drunk, for instead of rising to his feet, the boy rises only a foot before his arm goes slack and drops him back onto the cushions. “Shit, sssorry,” he slurs, leaning his head back and covering it with his unwounded hand. “I c–…I ca–…” he’s breathing jaggedly again as though about to cry. “I can’t.”

Looking at this boy, blond hair sticking out at odd angles, hand wrapped in cling film, splayed helplessly across the cushions with a tear clinging to the eyelashes of his one uncovered eye, Liam feels so infuriatingly confused. He wants to resent this kid. He wants to hate his stupid loud drunk mouth. He wants to be angry that the complete negligence and incompetency of a stranger—and his so-called friends who couldn’t be bothered to take care of him—ruined a nice evening with a beautiful woman. And he does feel those things, a bit. But he also feels concerned. He feels like wiping that tear from his eyelashes and telling him—making him _believe_ —that he’s gonna be fine.He feels like he’s gone to such great lengths to keep him out of harm’s way that he can’t leave until he’s _sure_ he’s safe. Some incredibly _stupid_ part of him feels like he just can’t leave him alone.

It’s with this terrible cocktail of feelings that Liam exhales heavily and says, “This is gonna be a little weird, I know…but if it’s okay with you, I’m sure I can just carry you up the steps. Like, on my back.”

The boy opens his eyes at this and brings his hand away from his face, looking confused or…more like inquisitive. “You…don’t have to,” he says hesitantly.

“Don’t worry,” Liam says, with a conflicted smile, “I’m sure after puking your guts out, you’re light as a feather.”

The expression on the boy’s face melts a little bit into a strained smile.

“Come on then,” Liam says, squatting in front of the sofa so that the boy can clumsily wrap his arms and legs around his torso. Once he’s satisfied that he’s not going to slip off, Liam stands up and loops his arms over the boy’s ridiculously skinny legs. _Really_ is _light as a feather_ , he thinks. He makes his way back over to the stairwell and climbs slowly to the top. When they reach the landing, he asks, “Which one is yours?”

“To the left,” comes the voice behind his ear. Liam can feel the warm breath on his neck…and smell the alcohol too. He turns to his left and reaches a hand out to turn the knob, then pushes the door the rest of the way open with his foot. The room is very dark, but Liam can see the outline of a bed in the dim light coming from downstairs. He walks over and sits down on it, depositing the boy as he does so and then getting back up.  When he turns around, the boy is curling up into his covers with a relieved look on his face.

“Thank you _so_ much,” he says, voice muffled by covers.

“Yeah,” Liam replies, a relieved smile spreading over his face. “Listen, I’m gonna get you another glass of water. This time, don’t drop it on the floor, okay?”

“ _Thank_ you,” the boy says again as Liam turns to leave the room. When he hits the stairs, he feels a wave of fatigue wash over him. _Must be pretty late by now_ , he thinks. Not to mention his legs are a little sore from carrying a person up those very steep stairs, even if it was a very light person.

Reaching the bottom, he makes his way back into the kitchen and pulls another glass from the cabinet. After filling it with tap water, he empties it in several gulps and fills it again. Finally, he turns to make his way back up the stairs, but as he passes through the living room, his calf cramps up painfully, making him almost drop the glass of water. Setting the glass on the floor, he hobbles over to the sofa clutching at his leg.

“Ow ow ow ow, fuck,” he cries as he drops onto the couch and massages at his calf with his fingers. “Goddammit.” The pain begins to lessen slightly, but not enough, and Liam stretches out onto the sofa so that he can straighten his leg and try to stretch out the muscle. After a minute, the pain has mostly subsided and Liam takes a break from massaging his calf to flop backwards onto the couch. It feels good to be lying down, just for a moment. _God, what a fucking night this has been_. The ceiling light is harsh now that he’s lying on his back, and he closes his eyes to block it out. It feels even nicer to be lying down with his eyes closed. _Just for a moment_ , Liam thinks. _Just until my calf stops hurting_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow did it ever take me forever to write this. So glad to have finally finished. School has started up again, but Niam is still calling to me, so I hope to have more of this before TOO long.
> 
> Thanks to saysthemagpie for her help on this chapter and her encouragement that keeps me going!
> 
> Enjoy!

When Niall awakes it is to the crushing feeling inside his skull.

“Uggghhhhh” he groans, curling more tightly into himself, clutching at this sheets for comfort. Light is pouring in through his window, making his eyelids a bright fleshy red even as he scrunches them shut against the piercing sun. _Fuck London_ he thinks. _Thought this place was supposed to be grey and rainy_.

He tries to nod back off, but his body is alight with discomforts—a pressure in his head, an aching in his joints, a churning emptiness in his stomach—and, whimpering in self-pity, he forces himself out of bed.

_Never took off last night’s clothes…_ he realizes. His skin feels sticky and cold underneath his sweater and figuring out why feels like trudging through a dense fog. It is several moments before he can articulate to himself, _I don’t know how I got here_. Last night must have been great. The last thing he remembers is laughing uncontrollably at Louis’s jokes.

As a new wave of churning rolls through his abdomen, Niall resolves to grab some food, water, Tylenol, and head back to bed. The mirror on his bedroom door provides an unfortunate opportunity to assess last night’s damage. He’s washed out, lips dry, eyes red, hair sticking out at all angles. His hands automatically venture upwards to press his hair into a less chaotic shape.

“Ow,” he groans dully, a kind of burning pain seeming to split his left hand through the center. Curling his hand into a more relaxed position triggers an even stranger sensation—the sound of crinkling and the feeling of friction, as though he were wearing gloves. “What the…fuck?” His eyes are slow to refocus as he moves them from the mirror to survey his hands. For several more moments, he is half-convinced that they still haven’t adjusted. The shiny whiteness of his hand seems to make no sense. Until he realizes that it’s cling film and not skin that he’s looking at.

“What,” he asks again, bringing his right hand over to inspect his film-gloved left, probing for a spot that will allow him to remove the layers—for there appear to be several—from his palm. Finding one, he peels off one layer, then another. On the last layer, he realizes that a clump of folded paper towels underneath is stuck to his palm. Tugging at it, he feels another strobe of warm pain radiate underneath as his skin is tugged with it. After a series of small tugs, the paper peels away, leaving only a small strip behind still clinging to his palm like gum stuck in hair.

“What the fuck happened?” Niall asks his hand when he realizes that the dark flecks on his skin are dried blood. Being with himself right now is like asking an infant what’s wrong—probing for causes and finding only symptoms.

Giving up this mental goose chase, Niall throws the film and paper towels in the bin and opens the door with his other hand. Not time to think about this now. Maybe Louis can tell him what happened later. The shoes still on his feet turn out to be a blessing, because the stair railing is on his left-hand side and the stairs are steeper than most. He isn’t keen on adding a bruised tailbone to his list of injuries this morning.

Niall’s feet thump each step, heavy with fatigue. The slapping is both annoying and grounding, coupling him through his body to the house, to the air: _thwump, thwump_ , _creak, creak_. Here you are, this is real, this is now, you are here. His fingertips graze the wall—bumpy, cool—as he reaches the bottom and turns into the living room.

Niall feels his brows scrunching together before he recognizes his own confusion. Sprawled lengthwise on the couch is a boy he’s never seen before—his coiffed brown hair mussed slightly on one side, his mouth and jawline peppered with stubble, his blazer creased under his back at an odd angle, trainers still laced on his feet. Niall’s eye lingers for a moment on one of his hands—big, bearing a large black watch, rising and falling, rising and falling with his chest, slowly.

_One of Louis or Harry’s friends?_ he wonders, finally slipping past and into the kitchen. _Maybe joined us at one of the pubs. Maybe was so drunk that he decided to crash here_. The cabinet closes with a thud. Niall wouldn’t blame him if he had—the water faucet creaks as he turns it—last night must have been nuts; he can’t remember the last time he’d blacked out like this. He gulps down water and refills his glass, then takes it round to the other side of the kitchen bar, pulling a stool out more noisily than he’d intended and climbing into it. He rests his head on the countertop, which rewards him with a cool, smooth sensation that dulls the ache in his head. After a moment, however, his head begins to swim and pushes him by throbs further into himself. He lets out a croaking groan, which thrums in his body and ends in a puff of air that flutters down onto his chest, bringing him rising back to his skin, aware of his body in space. Here you are, you are here.

This is real, this is now.

Here you are.

Liam becomes aware of light bleeding through his eyelids. Next comes an aching in his back that brings his mind bubbling up to the surface of his body, running in every cramped muscle, every sweaty pore. His eyes flutter open.

The ceiling looks farther away than it should be.

Rolling his head gently trying to get more comfortable, his eyes catch several things he doesn’t quite recognized. Half asleep, he is only aware of the vaguest confusion—half-thought _what?_ s and _where?_ s and _why?_ s skittering around and flitting into nothing like bits of dry ice pushed along a table.

Niall hears a stirring on the couch behind him, and when he turns, he sees the sleeper is awake, his brow furrowed and his watch hand reaching for the side of the couch. “Hey, mate. How ya feelin’?” he offers, taking a gulp of his water.

Instead of responding, the boy jumps slightly at the sound of this question, his eyes snapping to Niall. The eyes—chestnut brown, Niall’s realizes—widen then, slowly, subtly, brows pushing upwards along with them. As the boy glances away and shifts himself into a less horizontal position, Niall searches for something to fill the silence. “You’ll have to forgive me if we met last night—can’t remember a thing.” He pulls his mouth into a nervous grin. “You one of Lou and Haz’s friends?”

Liam’s wheels are spinning ineffectually, unable to gain traction on this situation. The blond’s words seem straightforward enough, but slip through him like water, triggering nothing, containing no meaning. “Uhh...no?” He guesses. The words thrum in his head and finally his wheels catch— _Is it morning? How did I fall asleep here?_ Memories pop up in backwards order—a pain in his leg, a trip to get water, carrying the blond up the stairs, the glass, the door, the taxi ride….

Niall’s eyes squint, his brows furrow as his next question spills from him, “Then what are you doing here?” A beat, then, “Sorry, that came out rude, but I’m confused.”

As Liam’s confusion fades, he is painfully aware of the awkwardness of this situation—the recognition warms into his gut, his throat, his cheeks. How to tell a complete stranger that you saw them cry, bandaged their hand, tucked them into bed, fell asleep in their house?

“Uhh…actually I…helped you get home last night.” Seeing the boy’s eyebrows spring upwards, Liam continues, more quickly, “I honestly didn’t mean to sleep here. I think I sat down here and just dozed off by mistake.” Liam clears his throat. “I’ll get out of here.”

“You helped me get home?”

“…Uh, yeah, you were very drunk and throwing up in the bathroom. You said your friends had left the pub, and I wasn’t sure you’d make it home on your own.”

“My mates left me behind?” The boy echoes, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“Yeah…that’s what you told me when you were in the bathroom. Honest to god, I wasn’t trying to be weird or anything, I just wanted to help you get home okay.”

Niall scratches the back of his neck, mulling this over. This did fit with the fact that he was blackout drunk last night and clearly incapable of looking after his physical well-being. He glances at his left hand.

“Okay, so you…did we take a cab here or something?”

“Yeah,” Liam replies, relieved that the boy seemed to believe him. “Then I helped you inside, and you…you couldn’t walk very well, so you sat on the couch for a while. I tried to bring you water, but you dropped the glass when I was trying to hand it to you.”

Realization flickers in the boy’s eyes. “Is…that how _this_ happened?” He says holding out his hand. Liam sees that the cling film and paper towels has been removed, revealing a mess of dried blood.

“Yeah, when you tried to get up from the couch, you got a piece of glass stuck in there.”

“And I wrapped it up with cling film?”

“Actually that was me,” Liam says sheepishly, feeling his cheeks flush. “You said you didn’t know if there were any bandages anywhere and…that’s the only thing I could think to do at the time.” He pauses. “It’s silly, I should have actually looked for some real band-aids, but you were kind of bleeding a lot and I was trying to act fast.”

“Oh my god, no. Thank you so much, really. I can’t believe…. I’m…I’m sorry I put you through all that!” The blond is wide-eyed now, like a deer in the headlights, as though living last night for the first time and frozen by this barrage of unpleasant information. Guilt wells inside Liam at this image, pressing on his chest like an asthma attack.

“Don’t worry about it!” He offers. An uncomfortable smile pulls at his cheeks in an attempt to underscore this sentiment. But the boy doesn’t seem comforted.

“So…did it break on the floor or something?”

Liam clears his throat. “Yeah, but I swept it all up, so you don’t have to worry about that either.”

Niall groans and drops his head into his unbloodied hand, squeezing at his temples. He had told himself this wouldn’t happen again. He had told himself he wouldn’t get so drunk he had to rely on the kindness of strangers. Uni was over, he was an adult, and he had told himself he would start acting like it. But he had been with friends, and he had thought…he had thought one night of careless celebration was just what he needed to get his new life in London off to a good start. Why was he always fucking things up?

“I am _so_ sorry. You didn’t have to do all that, but thank you _so_ much for…taking care of my sorry ass.”

“Oh…no, it’s–”

“Listen,” he cuts in, sliding off his stool, stretching tentatively first with one leg, then the other. “I’m…I’m gonna walk around the corner and get something to eat. Let me get you something. To pay you back for helping me out.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to–”

“ _Please_. Let me do this for you? I mean…obviously you should go if you want, but I’d…I’d really love to be able to thank you for what you did. Properly.”

Liam looks at the blond’s pleading face and feels his resistance melt inside him, in spite of his misgivings. “Well…okay, if you’re sure that’s–”

“Great!” Niall crosses to the front door, feeling his pockets—phone, wallet, keys, all check; he must have never taken them out from last night. “I’ll be back in like, ten or fifteen.” He unlocks the door and pulls it behind him with a thud.

Alone suddenly with his thoughts, restlessness flares inside Liam like a brushfire. He can’t believe this happened. If he hadn’t fallen asleep, he would be home now, in the comfort of his own bed, congratulating himself on doing a good thing, half-curious how the strange blond was faring this morning, but ultimately free of any need to stay involved in a situation that had been all-too intimate from the start. Liam’s fingers reach up to his temples, massaging impatiently. Fifteen minutes alone in a stranger’s house? This will feel like eternity.

He is so absorbed in his own anxiety he doesn’t hear the steps on the staircase at first. When he looks up, a pair of bare legs is already reaching the bottom steps, then a pair of black Calvin Klein trunks, a heavily tattooed torso, and curly brown tresses bouncing slightly against a pair of shoulders. The figure turns.

“Oh! …Hello.” The boy says, not seeming at all embarrassed by his attire and striding casually into the room. “I didn’t realize we had guests. Did you…” His eyes squint, a cautious smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he cocks his head curiously, “Did you come home with Niall?”

Liam opens his mouth, but isn’t sure what to say to this. “Uhh…is that…the blond bloke?”

The boy raises his eyebrows, his smile widening. “Yes. That’s him.”

“Then…sort of, I guess.” Liam is really regretting having stayed now. How do you explain to people why you’re in their home in a way that doesn’t sound creepy?

“Sort of?”

“I…I found him in the bathroom of the pub I was at last night. He was really drunk and said he didn’t have anyone around to help him get home, so I just sort of…got in a cab with him to make sure he made it home okay.”

“Oh. And then you slept over?” Says the boy, looking confused.

“I sat down on the couch for a second before I was going to leave and I guess I just…fell asleep.”

The boy’s eyes squint, as though trying to decide if he is being lied to. “You know…I wouldn’t judge you at all if you came home with Niall for…other reasons.”

“No, no!” Liam answers, more exuberantly than he intends. “Honestly, I just…would have felt bad leaving him to fend for himself. He was completely sloshed, vomiting in the bathroom when I found him, could barely walk on his own.” A nervous chuckle tumbles from his lips. “It was pretty rough, to be honest.”

By now, the boy’s eyes have widened again and a hand is resting contemplatively on his chin. “Wow. Well, thanks for taking care of him, then.”

Liam smiles, relieved. “Yeah,” he nods, “not a problem.”

“So, where is Niall, then? His door is open, but I didn’t see him in there.”

“He just went out to get some food. He insisted on getting me some when I told him about all that happened last night.”

“So he didn’t remember anything?”

“I don’t think so. I woke up and he was down here drinking some water and he asked me if I was a friend of…Lou and Haz?”

The boy erupts into laughter at this, peals of it percussing the air, his smile and eyes wide. “That must have been so awkward!” Liam isn’t sure whether he’s endeared or put off by this, but smiles in spite of himself. “I’ll bet he feels terrible!” As his laughter dies down, he stretches out his hand. “I’m Haz, by the way. Harry, I mean.” Liam takes his hand and shakes it. “Louis is still upstairs with a _terrible_ hangover. I came down here to collect some water and ibuprofen. Would you like some too?”

“Oh uh…just water would be nice. Thanks.”

“No problem!” Harry strides into the kitchen, pulling open a cabinet. “I don’t think I caught your name?”

“Oh, it’s Liam!” Liam calls as Harry turns on the water.

When Harry returns, offering a glass of water, he asks “So, what do you do, Liam?”

Accepting the glass, Liam answers, “Oh, um, I’m a financial advisor. At Barclays.”

“Oh, wow. This place must look like a bit of a dump to you, then.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I just mean…I figure financial advising pays pretty well.”

“Oh! Well…”

Harry smiles disarmingly, licking water from his lips. “I’m sorry, I picked possibly the rudest thing to make a joke about to a stranger.”

Liam copies Harry’s smile, feeling relieved to be able to say, “No, don’t worry about it.” Then, looking for something sensical and light-hearted to add, offers, “It’s not the _rudest_ thing you could have joked about.”

This earns another brow raise from Harry, accompanied by another smirk, making Liam feel as though he’s said something dirty, and he tries to mask his sudden terror at having said the wrong thing by barreling forward like a butting ram: “I actually live near here myself.” Harry’s eyes are looking at his mouth as he says it, making him hyper-aware of his phrasing, the stilted way “myself” had probably sounded, the nervous look he probably had on his face, the way he didn’t seem to belong here.

“Oh yeah?” Harry replies, and Liam latches onto this tiny conversational success, wanting to climb his way out of this awkward place with the kind of small talk he’s good at. “Yeah, in Hammersmith. It’s probably only a twenty- or thirty-minute walk from here, actually.” That was better, though the repetition of “actually” sounded stilted again, and Harry is surely wondering if Liam _is_ the snobby kind of yuppie he’s trying to demonstrate that he isn’t. Liam sips his water, not sure what to do with his eyes. Wiping his mouth, he searches for something else to fill the silence.

“So,” he asks, “what do _you_ do?”

As Harry answers, his eyes shift up from Liam’s mouth. “I work at la Patisserie St. Anne. It’s a French Bakery” he explains, his words coming out almost painfully slowly, his lips pouting and rolling in a way Liam has never seen before. His French accent seems natural in his mouth, however, and “la Patisserie St. Anne” is spoken more quickly than the rest—practiced, second-nature.

“Oh, I think that place is on my street!” Liam says, once again latching on to this tiny promising conversational kernel. Liam has always had trouble talking to strangers—or even to friends and family—about his own work; nobody wants to talk about banking or finances, believing them to be mind-numbingly boring. But talking about other people’s work, that was easy.

“You’ll have to stop by sometime, then. You like pastries?”

“Sure…although I confess I’m more of a meats and veggies man.”

Harry nods, rolling his bottom lip between his fingers. “Well, our sweets really are the best part, but we do have some sandwiches you should check out.”

Liam has finally grasped something sturdy here, he realizes as they continue their discussion of the bakery—how busy it gets, what the work atmosphere is like, how many employees there are, why Harry is invested in seeing it do well, what Harry would love to see change there, on and on. This is what Liam loves to talk about; these are the questions he’d like to be able to ask more. He’d like to help people figure out which parts of their dreams are attainable right now, what risks are worth taking, what they ultimately want to get out of their business. Aside from the numbers, statistics, equations, _that’s_ the lifeblood of his job, the part he signed up for. These conversations feel like all the good parts of his job, and none of the bad.

Harry’s smile is coming easily now, and so are his words. He’s put his glass of water down and begun gesturing with his hands, the long, ringed fingers glinting in the low light coming through the thin window curtains. Liam is becoming less and less aware of himself, falling into the rhythm of the thing, bobbing up and down with Harry’s words, exchanging ripples that pulse between them at an almost-constant rate, almost-unthinkingly, almost-comfortably.

When Niall pushes the door open, paper bags crinkling and keys jangling, he feels like an intruder. He hadn’t expected to see Harry up so early; he and Louis usually slept late or at least “slept” late, one of the two.

“Oh!” He said, kicking the door shut behind him. “I uh…I’m surprised you’re up, Haz.”

“Yeah…Lou’s got a terrible hangover, so I came down to get him some water and stuff,” Harry answered. Then, “I hear you had a pretty wild night yourself,” he said, pulling a smirk into his lips. Liam realized that his smirks never quite seemed malicious somehow…probably to do with his dimples, which made most of his facial expressions disarming in one way or another.

Niall laughed nervously as he walked toward the bar separating the kitchen from the living room, setting the bags down. “Yeah, I guess so. I honestly don’t remember anything after going to that second pub. I mean,” he corrected, turning and resting his elbows on the bar, “I remember ordering some drinks and like…generally having a good time, but…after that,” he snapped his fingers, “gone. Nothing.”

Harry is scowling, which is something new to Liam. He feels now like he’s the one intruding, intruding on something important and intimate. “I didn’t realize you got so drunk so early. We wouldn’t have left without you, if we’d known…”

“Haz, it’s,” Niall interjects, “it’s not your fault. I mean, I don’t remember you leaving, but I’m sure its…. Well, don’t worry about it. I know you wouldn’t have left me if you’d realized.”

Liam is _very_ uncomfortable now. He remembers that these people are strangers. Strangers with their own lives. Lives that he isn’t a part of.

Harry exhales, partly in resignation, partly in relief. “Okay, well…I’m still going to keep a closer eye on you from now on,” he says. And then after a pause, “I should have brought this water to Louis a long time ago, so I’m gonna do that.”

“Okay,” Niall says, with a weak smile. “I tried to get enough for all of us, though, so…maybe you can bring him down for some breakfast? Or take something up for him.”

Harry smiles. “What did you get?

“A whole coffeecake, and a quiche. And some coffee.”

“From Counter and Table?”

“Yeah.”

Harry’s smile reaches up to his eyes this time. “I’ll see if I can convince Louis to get up. Will you save some for us, though, if we don’t make it back down?”

“Sure!” Says Niall. I think it’s more than me and…”

“Liam,” Liam supplies awkwardly.

“Liam,” Niall finishes, “will be able to eat.”

It’s with a chuckle that Harry turns and calls, “All right, hope to see you in a bit!” and walks up the stairs.

Left alone again with Liam, Niall is suddenly too painfully aware that this stranger has seen him at his worst, his most vulnerable. As their eyes meet, blue on brown, fixed briefly together as though by magnets, Niall feels completely seen and completely unseeing. It leaves him desperately wanting to impress, and yet desperately regretting having prolonged this all-too-intimate encounter.

“Let me set this down,” Niall says, brushing past Liam—he smells of leather, which makes his neck tingle inexplicably—and into the kitchen. “Go ahead and take a seat at the bar!” He pulls the food out of the bag and grabs plates from the cupboard. “You want coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks, that sounds good.”

Niall pulls at a mug clumsily, sending it toppling around in the cupboard before he can firmly grasp it. He hears a hiss behind him and turns back to the bar.

“If you drop another mug, you have to clean it up this time.” Liam is smirking, but his eyes seem to ask, “Is this okay?” His raised eyebrows are thick and full and they make him look…strong, Niall thinks, even while so unsure.

Niall grins broadly, setting the mugs down. “That sounds fair. Can’t promise you I won’t impale my hand in the process, though,” he said holding up his left hand. “Speaking of, I should probably wash this off properly.”

“Your friends must be crazy to leave someone so clumsy on their own, for any stretch of time.”

Niall laughs over the sound of running water. It’s a rapid-fire, high-pitched thing that fades, becomes silent, and culminates in a sharp inhale—altogether more than Liam had expected and somehow making his chest thrum in sympathy. “It’s a wonder they let me live in their house with all their fragile things! That mug I gave you is Louis’s favorite.”

“I hope the glass you broke last night wasn’t another of his favorites!”

“Not Louis’s, but I imagine everything else in this house was hand-picked by Harry. He’ll probably chew me out when he realizes he no longer has a full set of glasses. ‘What will we do when we have guests?’” He says, mimicking Harry’s accent.

Liam laughs. “Your impression is uncanny.”

Niall beams. “I’ve been told I do good impressions.”

“What else can you do?”

“Umm…I can do James Bond.”

Liam nods encouragingly.

Clearing his throat and pulling his brows closer together, Niall says, “The name’s Bond”—flicks his head—“James Bond.”

Liam claps his hands as he laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, sending a rush of warmth into Niall’s chest. “That was _very_ good.”

“I can do a Scottish accent too!”

“Let’s hear it.”

“This show is crap! I’m goin’ back ta Glasgow!”

“Brilliant!”

“Someone actually said that to me while I was playing at a bar once,” Niall says, cutting the quiche into eighths.

“No way!”

“Yeah, while I was at uni. I wasn’t very good then, to be fair. But I remember Louis yelled back at him, “Go on then!”

“You’re a musician, then?”

“Yeah,” Niall says, moving on to the coffeecake. “It’s why I moved to London—better music scene here. Just got here a couple days ago, actually.”

“You just moved?” Liam asks, helping himself to a slice of quiche.

Niall nods. “Yeah. And already making a reputation for myself as a sloppy drunk,” He replies, smirking.

Liam laughs. “It’s all forgotten, I promise. Now you’ll be the nice guy who bought me breakfast and does killer impressions.”

“I don’t believe you, but thanks for saying so.” He pauses, taking in Liam’s smiling pink lips and soft, kind eyes. He can feel his pulse in his ears and his cheeks getting warmer, which makes him feel too-fully seen again, and entirely stupid. But he won’t dwell on that. Something to busy himself. “Coffee?” He says, unscrewing the lid of the box.

“Yeah,” Liam answers, handing over his mug.

Footsteps thump down the stairs and Harry and Louis appear in the living room, Harry now wearing pants and looking irritated, Louis with pale skin and looking absolutely miserable.

“Good morning!” Niall says as cheerfully as he can. This elicits precisely the reaction he expected from Louis—a withering glare. “Fancy some quiche? Coffeecake?”

“God, Niall, why did you order so many shots last night? My head feels like it’s going to explode,” Louis crawls into the seat next to Liam and rests his head on the table.

“Believe me, I paid the price last night,” Niall replies, handing Liam his coffee and displaying his wounded hand.

“Jesus, what the fuck did you do to it?” Harry exclaims, making Louis look up.

“Apparently I broke one of your glasses.”

“Ugh, I knew we never should have let you in our house.”

Niall and Liam exchange smirks.

“Thought you might say that,” Niall says, moving around the bar and settling into the seat on Liam’s right.

“I’m going to have to babyproof the whole place!”

“Oi, rude,” Niall replies, swinging his chair to face Harry. As he does so, his knees knock into Liam’s—his legs are so warm and…very firm.

“Woops, sorry,” They say in unison.

Liam’s and Niall’s eyes seem to lock in place again like magnets. Liam can feel the ghost of Niall’s legs on his as he looks into the blond’s eyes—deep blue and rimmed with smile. Every inch of his skin feels alive and pulsing. He feels at once completely seen and completely unseeing.

He thinks, _It’s time for me to get out of here_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I know it's been ALMOST A YEAR since I posted the last chapter, and this is just because I am a garbage human being. To anyone who reads this: I cherish you and your persistence and your generosity of spirit. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. To those readers I have lost due to my laziness, you are probably not reading this anyway, but I get you, and I hope you have found authors who don't make you wait for THE ENTIRE GESTATION PERIOD OF A HUMAN FETUS just for one single chapter.
> 
> That said, things are slowly heating up in this chapter, and I enjoyed writing it, so I hope you'll enjoy reading it. :)
> 
> Thanks as always to saysthemagpie, who is my inspiration to keep writing and who has important insight on whether or not Liam would like The Catcher in the Rye and other very important details.
> 
> And thanks to my very kind followers who gently prodded me at one point or another to keep writing, dammit. This one's for you.

“Just think of it like this: If you’re awful, it won’t matter because there’s no one here.”

“Oh yeah, that’s great, Lou, thanks for that.” Niall adjusts his guitar case on his back.

“I just meant—”

“Louis…” Harry chides.

“No, but like,” Louis charges on, “it’s like at uni, yeah?”

“Kinda hoped I had gotten better since then” Niall says with a chuckle, prodding at the concrete floor with his shoe.

“Hey, we weren’t half bad back then!”

Niall laughs at that, but it’s mostly exhale. He feels a weight fall on his shoulder as Harry leans an arm on him. When Niall turns his head, Harry has brought his face uncomfortably close and is grinning cheekily. Niall isn’t sure whether to giggle or look away.

“You just have to start small and work your way up” he coos. “Once they realize a guy this handsome can play guitar _and_ sing, it’s only a matter of time.” Harry’s hand slides down Niall’s back as he says this, punctuating his last word with a firm squeeze at Niall’s ass.

Niall wriggles away, not sure if he’s laughing because he’s ticklish or because he’s nervous, only that he can feel his face going red.

Louis curls his arm around Harry, pulling him roughly to his side as he says, “All right, you. You’re going to have me buy me a very fancy drink at the bar now or I’m going to start getting jealous.”

“Oh, I would, darling, but I’m not sure they believe in those here.”

“Guess you’ll have to find some other way to make it up to me.”

Harry’s face lights up in mock surprise. “Oh my!”

Niall’s face feels hot watching this performance. He’s seen many like it by now—they aren’t exactly coy about their relationship—but somehow it still always makes him feel like an intruder stumbling upon something secret.

“I’m going to go find the sound guy,” Niall interrupts. “See you in a bit?”

“We’ll be at the bar.”

…

Niall’s set goes poorly at first; the fewer the people, the more anxious he becomes, actually—he can _feel_ every set of eyes watching him, every muttered assessment of his performance. On the other hand, he can also feel the impenetrability of those who have chosen to ignore him entirely, and he’s not sure if that’s better or worse. Eventually muscle memory takes over, his fingers become more agile, his voice warms up, and he’s doing fine. More people come in looking for their evening pint and Niall begins to feel calmingly anonymous—appreciated and unnoticed all at once. But he thinks to himself: this is not what musicians are supposed to want when they perform. Isn’t he meant to _thrive_ on attention?

When his time is up, he joins Harry and Louis at the bar. Affirmations bubble from their mouths as they buy him a celebratory drink—“Your first London gig, done! Congrats!”—but Niall is sure he can’t believe them when they say, “You sounded great!”

But he grins and declares it “not a total train wreck,” his easy laugh diverting his friends toward a state of jocularity instead of concern. He downs his beer and orders another.

Four beers in, Louis claps him on the shoulder. “Careful, now, you don’t want a stranger to have to carry you home.”

Niall is feeling warm and soft at the edges, blood thrumming happily in his cheeks. “He didn’t _carry_ me home,” is what comes out in response. It seems as good a retort as any.

“How would you know? You were completely black-out drunk!”

Niall ponders this, eyes going wide without his consent. A collective chuckle from Harry and Louis reminds him to be conscious of his facial expressions.

“I mean,” Harry prods, relishing this, “who wouldn’t take the opportunity to get such a cute little mess into their arms?”

“Yeah, Ni, I might have to just carry you home tonight myself. I have a thing for men with guitars.”

Harry shoves Louis playfully. “ _No_ , you have a thing for men who bake and buy you all your nice things and laugh even when your jokes are stupid.”

“Ugh,” Niall groans, rolling his eyes and glancing around to see if anyone else has noticed this gross display of affection.

Harry retorts, “Don’t worry, Niall, you may not be Louis’s type, but I’m sure that man who brought you home absolutely _swoons_ over musicians.”

Niall groans louder this time and bangs his head emphatically on the bar. “I wouldn’t date either one of you,” he declares, “even if…even if you told me your favorite thing was buying mansions for cute blond Irishmen and introducing them to all the biggest music producers in the city.”

“But what if what’s-his-name’s favorite thing is buying mansions for cute blond Irishmen and–”

“Piss off,” Niall says through a scowl. “We can’t all be attracted to everything that moves.”

Harry mocks offense with a gasp and a hand on his chest. “Not _everything_ that moves. Just the especially pretty things.”

Louis bestows a kiss on Harry’s cheek. “What _was_ that guy’s name, anyway?”

“Um…” Harry ponders.

“We need to know his name when he inevitably shows up in our home again. Think. I’ll buy a pint for whoever can remember his name.”

A voice in Niall’s head—deeper than his own—mutters, “Liam.”

Niall says nothing.

…

Liam is lost in the pair of blue eyes sitting opposite him. Pale, robin’s egg blue, they shine under the café lights. They shine like the short blond hair they sit under. Bright and bright and shining. He is lost. And the lostness is disconcerting. These eyes are a vacuum through which only light passes, and the falling through them is bright and bright and too bright and at the bottom there is only himself and the shining blue void.

It is only with great effort that he pulls himself back out, blinking self-consciously, to focus on what the blonde is saying. Her glistening pink lips bouncing up and down entirely flummox him. Where has he gone? Where has she?

Liam has begun to believe there is something wrong with him. This woman is almost disturbingly gorgeous. She likes dogs. She has views on life that you could describe as interesting. But Liam finds it difficult to imagine himself with her. Something seems missing in that.

She invites Liam back to her place after an hour of pleasant conversation. He accepts. The sex is bad. Their bodies move against each other like sine and cosine, never thrusting at the same time. He doesn’t stay the night. He drives home. He passes Sterndale Road and reminds himself that this date wasn’t as bad as the last. The image in his rearview cheers him, makes him feel relieved. Also reminds him of a life he does not have. At his flat, he brushes his teeth and lies in bed for an hour without sleeping.

…

The storefront is unapologetically pink and Liam knows that this is a mistake. Through the drizzle, he can just see into the open doorway across the street—women moving briskly along the counter, pointing at items below the glass, pastries magicked into bags and boxes by workers in striped aprons. Liam doesn’t know how to be part of that transaction. Liam doesn’t belong here.

But Liam is also on a schedule and has no time to alter his plans.

So he forces one foot in front of the other, then the next, and makes his way across the street, drizzle speckling his coat and clinging to his face. As he shuffles inside he pats his hair with one hand to assess the state of frizz and disarray. From his place in the back of the line, Liam has plenty of time to let the shocking yellow of the interior sink in. It’s like being inside an Easter egg, and there’s a sign on the wall that reads “Bienvenue,” and all the menu items are written in French and against all odds Liam is feeling even less confident than before. The woman in front of Liam is greeted by a cute twenty-something with silver hair pinned up loosely at the back of her head, and Liam is caught between desperately listening to her order (so he can observe how this all works) and desperately craning his neck to see farther down the narrow shop interior, searching for…

And then, yes. He _is_ there. And Liam is relieved and mortified all at once as their eyes meet and the aproned figure cocks its man-bunned head, narrows its eyes, and grins.

“Liam! Fancy meeting you here!” Harry calls as he meets Liam on the other side of the glass. “You came here just to see me, didn’t you?”

And then he _winks_ and Liam could die of embarrassment, feeling his face go hot and hearing himself laugh nervously.

“I hope you did, because unfortunately there’s no sloshed Niall here for you to take care of.”

Liam hopes his eyes aren’t going wide at that. He feels himself compensating by pressing his cheeks up into his eyes in the biggest grin he can manage. Then he hopes he doesn’t look crazed. What comes out is, “Man, I really thought a bakery would be the prime location to find him falling down drunk.” _That wasn’t so bad._ It was passably cool, even. Harry’s laugh confirms its success.

“No, I actually thought maybe I could get some stuff to bring in for the morning meeting I have today.”

“Sure! What would you like?”

Liam pulls at the cuffs of his coat. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I haven’t had a chance to look at what you have.”

“Want me to assemble some stuff for you?”

“That’d be great.”

“How many people?” Harry asks, pulling out a box and folding the corners together.

“About twenty I think?”

“All right, let’s see…I’ll get you some croissants…aux amandes…chaussons aux pommes…pain aux raisins…et une baguette.” The speed at which he works is almost startling and Liam hurries along the counter to keep up. “I’m putting some butter and jam in here for the baguette. Do you want any coffee as well?”

“Yeah, let’s do that!”

“Need cups, napkins, knives?”

“Yes, please!”

“Does what I’ve assembled look good? Anything you want to add, remove?

“No, it looks great!”

Harry grins. “All right, I’m going to grab a box of coffee from the back and I’ll meet you at the register.”

After ringing Liam up, Harry looks at him cheekily and adds, “I’ll tell Niall you were here. Maybe it’ll get him to visit me at work more often.”

“Oh,” Liam says through an automatic chuckle. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Have a good meeting!”

“Thanks, you too!” Liam shuffles out of the too-yellow store and into the dull grey drizzle.

“You too?” He says, shaking his head. “Come on.”

…

Niall had picked at his guitar until his fingers hurt, but nothing had come of it. “You need an EP,” his agent had said, “one that really showcases the style that’s unique to you.” Niall wasn’t used to working with an agent, and this first meeting had made musical success seem simultaneously unattainable and like something just waiting around the corner to be found. So Niall had locked himself in his room and tried to write something new. But the notes hadn’t come, and the words had contorted themselves into trite phrases.

Having set his guitar gently on its stand, Niall flops onto his bed face first. Maybe if he just lies here forever he won’t ever have to worry about success. Maybe if he can take up just the tiniest amount of space and sleep most of the day and consume minimal resources, Louis and Harry would let him live here for free. Maybe if he lounged around and made cat noises he could trick them into thinking he _was_ a cat and then they could feed him chicken and tuna and give him head scratches and praise him for literally nothing and he wouldn’t ever have to do anything ever again.

A loud knock at the door almost sends Niall out of his skin.

“Ni, you in there?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, blood still thrilling in his face and chest. “Yeah, hang on!”

He pulls himself from the bed and opens the door to find…nothing. Niall has only a moment to register his own confusion when a great shaggy head explodes into view beyond the doorframe, followed by a lazy “Boo!” that jolts another embarrassing dose of adrenaline into Niall’s limbs.

“Good _fuck,_ why would you do that?” Niall blurts, but he’s already laughing in spite of himself. Harry laughs, surprisedly and in sympathy, and because he’s terribly pleased with himself, sending new waves of laughter over Niall that layer and crescendo on top of each other until tears are in his eyes and he’s leaning on the wall for support. He almost forgets that he wanted to be a cat just a few moments ago.

When they’re finally done laughing and Niall is wiping his eyes, Harry says, “I was going to tell you _Liam_ came into Sainte Anne today.”

“Oh!” says Niall’s mouth. His eyes widen before he can remember that they will be scrutinized.

“Yes, and he was desperately upset that you weren’t there.”

“He was not.”

“He didn’t say so, but I could see it in his eyes. And in…other places.”

“You are intolerable.”

“He was very cute; he had no idea what he was doing there. The things people go through for love!”

“Fuck, Harry, can you not?” Niall retorts with too much bite. “It’s getting old.”

Harry smiles knowingly and suddenly Niall is not sorry for the unnecessarily aggressive tone of his voice. “Not everyone is gay, Harry,” he presses. Then, as an afterthought, “And if he’s gay, it’s clearly for you, not for me.”

“Okay, geez, I just thought you might be interested.”

“In what way?” Niall fires back.

Harry is drawing himself up to his full height and knitting his eyebrows together slowly, methodically through Niall’s speech, summoning up surprise and indignation in increasing measures.

“In whatever way you like, Niall. Excuse me for accusing you of being gay. Lord knows I would never want you to suffer that epithet.”

“I didn’t mean—” Niall mutters, tossing his hands up in frustration, “You know I didn’t mean—“

“I won’t bring him up anymore if that’s what you want. Except to say this: I think you should invite him to one of your shows if you see him again.”

Niall shakes his head disbelievingly, exhaling in protest.

“Because he might make a good _friend_ , Niall. And we’re more than happy to have you around, but eventually you’ll want more friends than just us, Ni. London is a big place. And all _our_ friends are gay.”

“Harry—” Niall begins, but nothing follows. He isn’t sure to what extent he’s being forgiven and to what extent resented; with Harry, the line between altruism and egoism can be so inscrutable.

In the silence, Harry nods and walks away.

Niall watches as he descends the stairs, feeling suddenly very alone.

...

Liam grabs another blanket from the closet, wrapping it around himself clumsily. He blows an experimental breath from his lips, watching mist condensate and dissipate rythmically towards the ceiling. He had come home that Friday evening to realize his heater was broken. He wouldn't be able to call maintenance until tomorrow morning. Which was just his luck, lately.

He carefully extricates a hand from his bundle of blankets to pull his laptop towards him on the couch. He brings up Hulu, hoping to find a new episode of something to watch, but finds nothing. He browses through "Irreverent Buddy Comedies" on Netflix and selects _Bindlestiffs,_ but the completely implausible plot fails to distract him from the teeth-chattering cold collecting in his limbs. "No one has _ever_ liked _The Catcher in the Rye_!" He informs his computer, tossing it across the bed. He curls himself into a dejected pile of blankets and vows never to move again.

This week had been one shit day after another. Meetings had gone awry. Memos had been lost. Appointments had been missed. Tinder messages had failed to yeild responses.

But even wallowing is not enough to distract Liam from the joint-locking, bone-freezing, inescapable cold breezing through his blankets. With a prolonged groan, he throws off his covers and forces himself out of bed. Might as well be somewhere warm, he thinks, throwing his laptop into his work bag and grabbing a pair of shoes.

When he arrives at the pub, it's already crowded, but he finds a free table in the corner and orders a beer. Then he orders another. And another. He is much warmer. Much drunker. But just as bored. He follows a celebrity feud on Twitter. He reads half an article about whether cider is the new beer, which he rejects as absurd. He watches a video called "True Facts About The Hedgehog" and gets through half of it before realizing it contains no actual facts. He orders a cider and regrets it. He watches a compilation video of "puppy fails," which brightens his mood.

"Hey."

Liam almost doesn't hear it, looks up expecting it have been directed at someone else. A blond-capped face looks uncertainly at him from across the table.

"Hey!" He hears himself responding.

"Hey." Niall repeats. "Uhh...sorry if I'm bothering you, but—"

"Not at all!"

"—but um, we saw you when we walked in," he gestures at the bar where a smiling Harry and Louis wave cheerfully, "and thought you...thought we'd ask if you wanted to join us."

"Oh!" Liam hears himself say loudly, his eyebrows jerking automatically upward.

"If you're in the middle of something, though that's fine," says Niall, gesturing vaguely at the laptop.

"No!" Liam says even more loudly, shutting the laptop emphatically. "Uhh, no, that sounds...good!"

Niall smiles. Liam stands up, only to see Louis and Harry getting up from the bar and crossing over to them.

"The bar is pretty full, actually. Mind if we join you here?"

"Oh, yeah, sure!" Liam sits back down stupidly and stows his laptop in his bag.

"I hope we read that right and you hadn't just told Niall to piss off," Harry says, grinning.

Liam lets out a short laugh. "No, that's not what I—"

"Just know that you can tell us to piss off at any time," Louis cuts in with a smirk.

"Noted," Liam says, nodding.

"What are you working on?" Asks Harry.

"Oh, I was actually just here because my heat is broken and it's freezing in my flat."

"Oh no, that's terrible!" Exclaims Niall. A look of concern floods into his face, making Liam's face go warm.

"It's kind of the worst, to be honest," Liam agrees.

"I wondered why you were at a pub all alone!" Louis interjects. "You don't seem the loner type."

"Yeah," Liam replies dumbly.

"What does the loner type look like, Lou?" Harry challenges.

"You know. Long beard. Long coat. Tall. Scar over one eye."

"So like Tom Hardy in _The Revenant,_ " Harry offers.

"Yes, exactly like that. Thank you, Harry."

"Although you do have a kind of Tom Hardy-ish look about you," Niall interjects.

Harry raises an eyebrow at Niall, then turns an assessing eye toward Liam.

"Thanks...I think," Liam chuckles, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

"I can see it," Harry affirms.

"More like David Beckham," Louis offers, squinting at Liam.

"Mm," Harry and Niall murmur in agreement.

"That's a huge compliment coming from Louis, you should know," Niall says. "He's wild about Beckham."

"You follow football then?"

"Obsesses over it, more like," Harry returns, prodding Louis affectionately with his elbow.

"Love it. Used to play myself when I was a lad."

"Or like Justin Timberlake," Niall says, half under his breath.

"What?" Harry asks. "Oh. Yeah, I can see that too."

"You should know that _that's_ a huge compliment coming from Niall." Louis adds, prodding Niall with his own elbow. "He's our resident NSYNC fan."

"I love his solo albums," Liam offers, smiling.

"Justin's or mine?" Niall jokes.

Liam laughs. "Justin's. Although I haven't heard yours, so they might be even better."

Niall chuckles and thumbs the side of his glass. "I'm actually working on one right now. Or failing to."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah," Niall says, blushing slightly.

"No way! You're a musician?"

Niall tries not to smile too wide. "I'm trying to be, anyway."

"He's really good, actually," Harry cuts in. "Don't let his modesty fool you."

"What kind of music do you play?"

"It's kind of...acoustic alt pop. I play guitar and sing."

"Do you perform around town?"

"A little...not as much as I should be, probably."

"Well, I'd love to see you perform sometime." Liam's eyelashes flutter unconsciously across this last sentence. Niall almost doesn't process what Liam's saying. He catches Harry's eyes and sees him mouthing "Told you so" through a smirk.

"Oh, uh...yeah! Sure! I'm uh...I'm not sure when I'm playing next though."

"Oh. Want my number so you can text me the next time you have a show?" Liam says uncertainly, holding up his phone for reference.

Niall can see Harry and Louis exchange glances, but is too flattered to fume internally at them. "Sure, I can do that," he says, pulling out his own phone. "What's your number?"

Liam gives it.

"And your last name?"

"Payne."

"Pain? Wow. With a name like that, you should be a WWE fighter," Louis interjects.

"Or an emo band frontman," offers Harry.

Liam blushes and looks down at his drink. "It's Payne with a 'y'. And an 'e' at the end."

"Oh, so more like the name of a metal band?" Louis retorts.

"Wow, guys, way to go," Niall jokes, "now you've made him self-conscious about his name."

Liam chuckles. "Oh, don't worry. I've heard them all."

"Chris Pratt!" Harry shouts.

"What?" Louis asks?

"Chris Pratt. That's who he looks like," Harry finishes, self-satisfaction beaming across his face.

An hour passes by unnoticed, conversation weaving between celebrity look-alikes, sports, and whether cider is or is not the new beer (with Harry and Louis in the 'yes' camp and Liam and Niall firmly in the 'no').  They order a round of ciders in order to bolster their assessments. Louis and Harry end up finishing Liam and Niall's ciders. Liam and Niall order Guinness, which Niall calls "a real drink," leading to a debate over just how popular cider is in Ireland compared to England. Another hour passes. Another round of drinks. A conversation about the best types of fruits. A conversation about Chris Pratt. A conversation about _Parks and Recreation_. A conversation about parks in London. A vow to walk to Ravenscourt Park, drunkness be damned.

"I've never been to Ravenscourt Park, actually," Liam confides.

"Well that settles it then!" Niall shouts. "We _have_ to go!"

"I dunno, Ni," says Harry, glancing at Louis. "I think Lou and I might have to head home."

"It was _your_ idea!" Liam reminds him.

Niall nods emphatically and points from Liam to Harry. "Yes, it _was,_ thank you, Liam. Come on, Haz! Swings! You love swings!"

"It'll be closed by now anyway."

"It's a _public park_."

"Sorry, Ni," Harry insists, grinning. "But you should take Liam, since he's never been."

Beneath the booze, Niall can remember a part of himself that thinks that's a terrible idea, but that part of himself isn't driving, and thank god for that because drunk Niall is _loving_ the idea of showing Liam around Ravenscourt Park.

"What do you think, Liam? You still up for it?"

Before Liam can fully process this proposition, his mouth is saying "For sure." Once it's out, he realizes to his surprise that it doesn't feel like a mistake. "Why not?" He punctuates.

...

It's freezing outside, but Niall barely notices. He can feel the alcohol thrumming warmth through his cheeks.

It's dark, but the willows and maples overhead are still beautiful, if a bit eerily so. Niall and Liam are shuffling ungracefully along the path in an unthinking, un-self-conscious silence. Mist puffs from their mouths as they breathe heavily.

Reaching a fork in the path, Niall touches Liam's shoulder to get his attention and half-whispers, "This way," moving to the left.

Liam follows, gazing unblinkingly at the gravel path, the leaf-less trees, his breath on the air, the back of Niall's head. As they round a bend, Liam realizes they've come upon a lake and it almost—stupidly, he thinks afterwards—makes him gasp. The lake's surface glitters with tiny movements underneath the light of the moon.

"I've never seen it at night," Niall comments. "It's almost spooky."

"It's so still," Liam adds. "It's like looking at ink."

They stare at the lake for several silent moments punctuated only by the sound of their breathing and an occasional sniffle of cold.

"Should we go in?" Liam asks suddenly.

"In the lake?" Niall responds incredulously.

"Yeah," says Liam, grinning stupidly. He knows this is a stupid idea, but he's drunk, he walked to a park, at night, with a practical stranger, and this seems like the next logical progression. It's a night for stupidity. And Liam hasn't had one of those in a long time.

Niall scans Liam's grinning face, then looks at the lake again, feeling speechless. "It'll be _freezing_ ," he says finally.

"Yeah," Liam answers. "Should we do it anyway?" His grin is taking up more and more of his face.

Niall laughs dismissively, but is surprised to find himself wanting to, in spite of all logic.

"Okay," He says. "Fuck it, let's do it."

"Really?" Liam says gleefully.

"Yes. It's the stupidest idea ever. But let's do it."

Liam takes off his long coat, giggling—legitimately giggling, though he can’t seem to summon up the appropriate embarrassment over it—and feels the cold coat his arms superficially, though he still feels warm inside. He removes shirt, then socks, then, with only a passing hesitation, his pants. He does all this without looking at Niall. When he's done and he finally locks eyes with Niall, Niall is likewise unclothed, wearing only a pair of blue boxer briefs.

"Let's go before I change my mind!" Niall half-shouts, rubbing his legs for warmth.

Liam looks with determination at the shimmering black water. "Ready...set...go!"

The boys jog clumsily down the bank and crash gracelessly into the water. Niall lets out a shriek, half-mirth, half-surprise as cold water envelopes him up to the knees. Liam is already pushing determinedly ahead of him, thigh-deep. When the water hits his underwear, Liam let's out his own shriek, but pushes further. Niall pursues him unthinkingly into the water, all the way up to his chest. His nipples feel like they're going to pop off his chest entirely and swim back to shore to escape the cold. He notices for the first time that his teeth are chattering.

"This is _awful_!" Liam shouts. He's still smiling through chattering teeth, but his eyes are wide with some crazy energy.

"I'm going back!" Niall replies through a laugh. "This is terrible!"

They push through the water as fast as they can, letting out a chorus of shouts to distract themselves from the cold now seeping bitingly into their limbs. When they reach the bank, dripping, Niall realizes with a pang of anxiety just how stupid they've been.

"We're just going to get our clothes wet if we put them back on now," he says.

"Fuck. Yeah," Liam says, hopping from one foot to the other for warmth. "We have to dry off a bit." He pauses, looking around as if hoping to find a towel hanging helpfully from a nearby tree. There are, of course, no towels to speak of. But the surrounding trees gives him an idea.

"Race you to that tree over there!"

"What? Liam, I can barely _move_ I'm so cold!"

"It'll warm us up, and it'll help some of the water evaporate! Ready set go!" He cries and bolts toward the tree.

"Fuuuuuck," Niall groans, but he chases after Liam, trying to put his feet down gingerly to avoid the twigs and rocks hiding in the grass. When Niall makes it to the tree, Liam is waiting, eyes wide with energy. Just when Niall leans against the tree to rest, Liam shouts, "And back!" and streaks back to their pile of dry cloths by the bank. With a sigh, Niall begins the return journey, even slower this time, the cold stiffening his joints and numbing his feet.

"I don't feel any better," he complains when he reaches Liam.

"You're a _little_ drier," Liam offers consolingly.

"Maybe a little," Niall admits. "But I'm still numb all over."

Niall looks down at his clothes longingly and knows he can't wait any longer. But he cringes at the thought of putting on dry pants over his wet trunks. Thoughtless with cold, he announces, "Sorry, I _have_ to take these off. There is no other way."

Liam feels a warmth, both welcome and unwelcome, steal into his cheeks. "I was just thinking the same thing, actually."

Niall is already stripping off his underwear clumsily and begins to pull on his pants, staying hunched over as he does so in hopes that this will block Liam's sight line to his penis and balls—not that there would be anything to see, with how much they seem to have retracted inside his body. _Have to preserve the sperm, after all_ , he narrates absent-mindedly to himself; _wouldn’t want one stupid night to prevent me from ever impregnating someone_. He pulls a face at his internal monologue, marveling at his own odd crassness and wildly relieved to not have been speaking out loud. _Note to self_ , he adds, _Never speak when drunk. Just nod and smile. Like The Little Mermaid._ His face contorts again at the strangeness of this thought—who is this person speaking inside his head, he wonders, because it feels nothing like him. But in his frantic drunken scramble to escape the cold, nothing catches hold in his mind for long. When he's finished with his pants and moving on to his shirt, he has already forgotten his strange, half-baked identity crisis. He stands upright again and catches a glimpse of Liam's shining white ass just as it disappears into his jeans. Niall lets the image diffuse into nothing inside his mind, subconsciously glad for the strange slipperiness of his drunken brain. He puts on his shirt, then his coat. He feels much warmer now.

Sitting down on the grass, Niall pulls on his socks and shoes, then pulls himself into a ball, still shivering, teeth chattering loudly. He warms his hands with his breath sending an almost painful tingling into his stiff fingers.

"Your coat is too thin for this weather," Liam comments, sitting beside him.

"I know, I lost my good coat a while back and I keep meaning to get a new one, but I haven't yet."

"Here," Liam says, "mine's long. You take one end and I'll take the other."

Niall is too cold for polite resistance and eagerly scoots closer as Liam offers him the tail end of his wool coat. The inside is lined with fur, and it feels pleasantly heavy as Niall pulls it across his shoulders.

They sit in silence for several minutes, all their attention devoted to warming their hands, ears, and feet.

Once his hands have stopped stinging with cold, Liam glances at Niall. "Well, I'm still glad we did it."

Laughing reflexively, Niall thinks for a moment. "Yeah, I am too." A silent second passes. "I still maintain that it was the stupidest idea ever, though."

"Oh, definitely," Liam assents, smiling.

In the cold, quiet calm by the lake, Liam feels something come over him—a feeling almost unfamiliar, returning like a prodigal son after a years-long absence. He feels content. Upon being recognized, the feelings morphs into something bittersweet. Before he can stop, he hears himself saying, softly, "I think this is the best I've felt in a long time."

Niall glances at Liam, catching the line of his nose, his lips, his jawbone and Adam's apple, soft at the edges in the dark. He looks back at his own knees, interested suddenly in the texture of the fabric. "I'm glad I got to show you this place, even if it's too dark to really see it. It—" he hesitates, searching for words. "It makes it feel like it's really home...instead of some big...alien city I don't belong in."

Liam considers this. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I've spent so much time here, but even my own apartment sometimes doesn't feel like home. Sometimes it just feels like this empty space where I sleep at night." Liam isn't really sure what he's saying anymore or why he's saying it, but something about sitting here in the blur of the dark with the blur of the alcohol still pulsing in his veins makes it feel like the most obvious truth he's never been able to recognize.

"It's a big city," Niall says, not sure if he's consoling himself or Liam, "but we'll get the hang of it eventually."

In the silence that follows, Niall feels something building—an unknown something that makes him anxious and pleased all at the same time. He wonders if Liam is feeling it too—this moment expanding almost to bursting in the space between their shivering bodies. Niall's restlessness reaches an almost painful height and he finally shrugs off the coat and stretches his legs, preparing to stand. "Well," he says, "I think I should be heading home. Thanks for coming here with me."

Liam looks as though he's been startled out of a reverie. He pulls his coat around him and slips his arms into the sleeves. "Yeah, guess it's time to find my way home." He pulls out his phone, starting up Google Maps. "How are you getting home?"

"I figured I'd just walk. It's like, 30 minutes away, but the walk will warm me up."

Liam's brows furrow slightly in an unreadable expression. His teeth pick at the skin on his lips.

"You could...join me, if you want," Niall blurts out impulsively. "You could always crash on our couch. It's pretty comfortable. As you know," he adds lamely.

Liam is silent for a moment. A long moment. A too-long moment in which Niall is suddenly certain that he's ruined everything.

"I think I might take you up on that, actually. I don't really feel like finding my way home.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://suddenlystylinson.tumblr.com/)!


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